


A partition of Comfort.

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: AU, M/M, Post 4:07 - Wallflower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Nothing personal, Tim says blandly, and Peter feels his teeth snap shut on the profanity.<em></em></em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em><br/><em>One-shot; completed.  I'm feeling nostalgic.</em></em><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A partition of Comfort.

_I was told to limit your contact with civilians._

There’s something curdled tight in his stomach, sour and starting to rot.  Peter thinks the hard palm to the centre of his chest told its own story.   Limit your contact with civilians.  House arrest.  A guard stationed outside his door.  He’s escorted from the FBI premises to his house under armed escort and he’s not allowed to interact with the public.  The way Tim’s hand had smacked him, solid, with intent.  How his right hand had dipped, a quick tell as his fingers curled toward his hidden piece before Peter came to an abrupt halt.  The shock felt like a bucket of ice water.  One second of eye contact then Tim had turned and grabbed the model off the top shelf for the kid who couldn’t reach it.  Objectively, Peter’s a curiosity.  At worse, he’s a threat – but he hadn’t realised he made the transition to a liable predator of _children._ Nothing personal, Tim says blandly, and Peter feels his teeth snap shut on a profanity. 

He’s starting to chafe under the faux civility:  “You know, I worked fringe cases for three years.  I never thought I’d become one.”

Tim’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker.  “Like I said, it’s not personal.”

Peter held a grudge against Walter for seventeen years, didn’t speak a word to his incarcerated father.  He knows _this_ version of Walter held a grudge against Nina Sharp for almost the same length of time, and the hell of it is: it _is_ personal. Taking things personally is the Bishop family way.  Peter thought he had mellowed out after meeting Olivia, took some cues from her notebook of selflessness – turned a page or two - but he can feel it pressing against him, the barbed notion that he deserves better treatment than this – because in some iteration, he was _one of them._ Part of their team.  There’s a sick irony in acknowledging the only entity who held a grudge with the same determination as a Bishop male - was Fate itself.

At the cash register, Tim pushes to the front.  He hands the company card over to the checkout chick and smiles brightly.  Tim does all of the talking, his voice modulated and smooth; cutting Peter out like the invisible man.  Instead, Peter sets his gaze toward the window, looks out at the overcast sky, the mottled collection of cars in the parking lot, and thinks about highways, crossroads, and being held static.

At this stage, Broyles is still concerned Peter will escape. The only concern Peter entertains, is the notion they’ll cut him loose.  That he’ll lose access to Walter, the machine, or the tech that could see him home.  Being told whom he can and cannot speak to, however, is a rub that doesn’t bear thinking about. 

At home, he paces; the anger rising without an out-let.  Broyles hasn’t approved releasing the machine’s schematics to him yet.  Walter wants him nowhere near, and since the events of the time displacement, Peter’s gone out of his way to steer clear of the lab.  It’s the type of agitation he could talk his way out of - if Astrid, Olivia, or Walter had an ear to lend – furthermore, it’s the type of agitation he could fuck his way out of, but his own hand lost its appeal the same time he and Olivia became an item.  He’s not feeling civil; he’s stretched to the fraying end.  No contact with outside civilians.  That leaves him with the core team of Walter, Olivia, Astrid and Lincoln, two of which are out of bounds. He stares at the landline for a moment then picks the phone up from the cradle.

“FBI switchboard,” a voice says immediately.

“Patch me through to Agent Lee.”

“Redirecting.”

“Peter?” There’s a rustle of paper, Lincoln’s voice sounds distorted, as if he has his cell squished between his shoulder and ear, a pencil clenched between his teeth.

“Did you know I’m not allowed to speak with civilians?”

“Limited contact,” Lincoln corrects softly.  “Don’t over-dramatise.”

“My landline goes directly to the FBI.  I’m not allowed to make an outward call?”

“I saw you hack our comm. system from within the _FBI building_.   Forgive me, but I was under the impression if you wanted to speak with someone, it wouldn’t be an issue.”  There’s the sound of a page being turned over.  “Was that all?”

“I’m bored.”  He feels all of six years old when he admits it.  Peter drops onto the couch; the phone cord looped around his wrist, and tilts his head to stare at the ceiling.  It needs painting.

“Can’t you talk to someone el—” Peter grins unpleasantly when Lincoln’s voice trails off at a higher octave, as he coughs down the line.  “Right.  Was there someone you wanted to speak to specifically?  The outward call will be monitored, obviously, but I’m certain Broyles will start to relax –“

“I wouldn’t mind someone from the FBI making the effort to explain the rules of my so-called ‘stay’...watching Tim defend a child from me wasn’t all that pleasant, to be honest.  I’d like to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m an alien.  But mostly, I’m thinking about dialling a sex-line and forgetting the world for a few blissful minutes.  Any of those viable?” 

The pause, Peter thinks, is a little more volatile.

“In order: yes.  There’s no accounting for taste.  And definitely _not._ ”

It’s been pleasant, Peter thinks.  “Screw it.  I’m dialling the sex line.  The FBI can foot the bill on their credit card.”

“You didn’t strike me as the type,” Lincoln says urgently, as if he’s keen to extend the conversation, or better yet, keen to make sure the sex call is never connected to the FBI.  “Husky voices and lewd acts – I mean, it’s a little ridiculous isn’t it?”

“What?  Being frustrated because there’s no one else around, or falling into the moment?”  Ridiculous is waking up in a world not your own, phone-sex doesn’t come close to the absurd.  In Peter’s tatty old scrapbook, it barely registers as a kink.  “Or being tethered and directed by something _other_ than my own hand?” 

The sunlight is wan through the curtains, an amber glow of light.  He pushes Tim’s face, the events of the day out of his head.  He pushes the memory of the kid and how he had startled, looked at Peter warily, into dimness.  He breathes evenly, palm flat against his abdomen, finger pads pressing against the worn out material of his t-shirt. Peter’s foot drops off the edge of the couch, knees splayed wide.

Her voice would be low – the connection an illusion – but as tricks, sleight of hand went, it would be gentle; her words would fall sweetly; the lie painless.  Until he comes.  Messes his own stomach.  Feels the ache behind his ribcage and the sweat on his thighs, the dial tone final on the end of the line.  He’d lie wanton, and blink at the spectres, the shades of his distorted house. He can hear Lincoln breathing on the other end. 

“Voices appeal to you?”  Lee’s lowered his own, in deference to being overheard.

Peter palms his crotch, sinks further into the cushions.  His t-shirt rides up, he thinks about whiskey and seduction.  “Tone.  Intent.  The huskier the better.”

“What do they say?  Over the phone-line?”

He can picture Lincoln at his desk, the curve of his spine; the broad rim of his glasses obscuring his face.  He can picture the cut of his suit.  How he’s never flinched with Peter - never stuttered away.  He’d be smooth, hairless as a teenage boy under the office attire, lean definition and the bow of his bottom lip.  Peter’s hard, erection trapped in his jeans, and he’s concentrating on that image, bringing it to life with gusto because it’s better than the bulk of his day.  His toes curl.  He flicks the button of his jeans open.  “They’d ask what you like.”

“Joy,” Lincoln whispers and there’s a catch to his delivery, a hint of whimsy.  “Is that outdated?”

Peter’s eyes shutter, his hand curls around his dick. “Over a phone-line?  You don’t make it easy.”

“They can’t make me laugh if I pay them?”

“It’s easier to make you laugh if you’re present.”  _With_ me.  And that sounds too much like an invitation.  He wouldn’t object to seeing Lincoln tousled, feel the quiver of laughter against his fingertips, the flash of his smile.  The type of connection not on offer at present.  “What else do you like?”

“I can’t do this at work.”

“Easy solution then: hang up.”

“You can’t dial a sex-line on the FBI account!”

Peter shrugs, grins at the ceiling.  “Then stay on-line with me.”

Lincoln’s voice hits the right pitch, finds its hooks in Peter’s belly.  “Talk to me. I don’t mind.”

Thumb and forefinger grip the base of his dick, the sound of personnel and Fringe buzzes in the background, and Lincoln’s breathing turns shallow, secretive.  “The glasses hide too much,” Peter whispers.  “I’d showcase those pretty lashes, unbutton your office shirt and leave your tie on.”  He cups his balls, feels the weight against his palm - the jeans making everything awkward - and says:  “But you’d lose the pants, the boxers, everything else below the waist.”  He’d bend Lincoln over the desk and pull his shirttails up, trail a thumb down his spine to the dimple of his coccyx.  Blow hot hair against his entrance just to watch the blush rise to Lincoln’s face, to see his mouth part.  “You present like a school-boy but I’m willing to bet that’s misdirection.” His dick twitches.  Peter lets it go and brings his hand to his face, smells his own scent, comforting and known, and licks a dirty swipe across his palm.

“I’m not an innocent,” Lincoln says, and he sounds rough, like he’s issuing a warning.

“You’re almost getting the tone right.”  Peter murmurs, rough, but not quite husky enough.  He lets his body fall into rhythm, skin catching with each sharp tug, the teeth of his zipper spread wide.  His cock curves toward his stomach, skin rosy red.

“Keep talking.”

It’s centring, a tether.  Lincoln’s presence divides Peter’s attention and staves off a body too long neglected.  And it’s not about him – not entirely – because it’s not anonymous phone-sex.  There’s no bill to be paid at the end. Lincoln is starting to sound wrecked, the catch and swallow between each breath telling.  So Peter talks, and wishes he could exchange words for a clever tongue, map out the ill humours, scars, and discover the bright spots of laughter.  “I’d deep throat, let you sit on the back of my tongue and hold you until my jaw ached.  And I’d keep you there, poised and trembling for minutes, or hours, thumb against perineum and two fingers hooked inside your body.  Tie loose about your neck and shirt soiled.”

“Peter,” Lincoln says, husky.

He arches against the couch, wetness on his abdomen and the orgasm pulled from him with a single acknowledgment.  He pants, harshly, and doesn’t hide the reaction. 

Lincoln knows.  He says across the line: “Dammit.  Dammit.”  And then, despairingly.  “I can’t leave the desk.”

There are motes in the air, the sun hasn't shifted much, and the plastic of the phone feels hot against his palm but there's no dial tone.  “Bring pizza,” Peter slurs.  “When you finally come around.”

 

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